


Brushwires

by Bright_Elen, theLoyalRoyalGuard



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Don't copy to another site, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe more like irritation/comfort, Now get ready for K-2 is offended by dust, POV Cassian Andor, POV K-2SO, You've heard of anakin hates sand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18436034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bright_Elen/pseuds/Bright_Elen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLoyalRoyalGuard/pseuds/theLoyalRoyalGuard
Summary: Another dicey mission, another dusty Outer Rim planet, another excuse for Cassian and K-2 to tend to one another.





	Brushwires

K-2 has only been planetside for half an hour, and he already hates GUHL-JO387O. He could compile an extensive list of the planet’s flaws, but at the moment the most relevant are (1) the terrible failures of their informants that have dropped chances of mission success by twenty-eight point seven percent and (2) the unrelenting, penetrating, ubiquitous, downright sneaky, fine white calcium-rich dust of the place. K-2 can survive an impressive range of environmental conditions (including hard vacuum), but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. Right now, he’s disliking it with every available process that isn’t otherwise occupied.

“They’re either trying to get us killed or are spectacularly incompetent,” K-2 remarks to Cassian as they board a dusty railspeeder from an even dustier platform. Yes, a railspeeder. The U-wing, apparently, is more needed elsewhere than in Cassian and K-2’s possession, which leaves them reliant on public transit to get to the correct location. Because an Imperial security droid on a train car full of civilians won’t cause any problems at all. “Cilphu doesn’t even sound similar to Thalmea City.”

“Let’s hope it’s simply incompetence.” Cassian fidgets absently with his pocket, curling a brushwire between his fingers, then another. “The alternative is too unpleasant.” Which means, of course, that he’s definitely considering it while he stares out the window, barely glancing at what his hands are doing. Watching the monotonous gray-white plain blur past, or pretending to. K-2 aways watches the space around them to guard against attack, but even when he tries, Cassian can’t stop doing the same.

What’s not typical is what Cassian’s hands are doing. K-2’s never seen him do anything with brushwires before — Cassian doesn’t use vaporizers or other items with the intricate tubing that require fine cleaning tools — even if he has seen him channel nerves into excess movement. Typically, it’s pacing, or cleaning his blaster, or fixing something. It’s never bothered K-2, has always been just another piece of data about Cassian stored in his hard drive, perhaps to become useful later on, perhaps just to serve as part of the experience of having a friend.

(It’s been three years, eight months, and eleven days, and K-2 is still quite pleased to have a friend.)

Still, currently, he’s also annoyed with everything and somewhat envious that Cassian can soothe his own agitation with tactile stimulation. “Congratulations. You have made what could generously be interpreted as a dog.”

Cassian tears his attention from the window, where the view has failed to produce anything of interest, and looks down at his hands. Between the scars and calluses of his fingers is, indeed, a roughly canine-shaped knot of red and grey brushwires. He gives a soft huff of air through his mouth that could roughly be interpreted as a laugh. “I’ve also ruined half a pack of ‘wires.”

Setting the dog on the arm of his chair, he adjusts the legs so it will stand without toppling over, and for those few seconds, something other than hypervigilant awareness of his surroundings has a significant portion of his attention. At least, if the steadiness of his gaze is to be believed, for once not darting around the compartment.

Then the railspeeder jostles sharply, and Cassian twitches upright. The dog wobbles, but stays steady where he set it.

“What are you going to do with it?” K-2 asks. It’s unlike Cassian to spend credits, even the paltry cost of the brushwires, on something that doesn’t serve a practical purpose, so he supposes the tiny sculpture must have one.

His shoulders twitch under the plain brown jacket he prefers for missions where it’s best for him not to draw attention. The kind he goes on, sometimes, without even K-2. “Take it apart when I need more brushwires.”

K-2 finds this recursive, but makes a conscious decision not to fight with Cassian over small things. At least, not when there’s dust turning to a clay-like sludge in his ankle joints and an ever-growing likelihood of being attacked before they even find their contact.

He’ll save antagonizing Cassian for when he’s bored on the way back from the mission.

* * *

There’s no road. Of course there’s no road. And of course the grass is wildfire dry, ready for the smallest spark, which is really going to be a problem if there’s any fighting. Or if they crash. They stand a chance getting to safety walking if they lose the speeder, but in a fire, neither of them will last long. Worse still is the dust the speeders kick up, an enormous white plume of it from the one rapidly diminishing in front of them, torn back to scour his face by the wind of their speed.

He glances towards Kay, who for once hasn’t spouted a depressing statistic in several minutes, which is frankly worrying. Telling Cassian their terrible odds is something the droid seems to enjoy, which means right now he’s having to concentrate too hard to have fun at Cassian’s expense.

Their contact is on that speeder currently in danger of vanishing in front of them, complete with binders, gag, and gang-thug captors, and the chances of catching up with her are diminishing just as fast. Kay leans on the throttle, and the acceleration slams Cassian’s back into the seat and pins him, squinting watering eyes against the sun and scorching dust, his knuckles white on the blaster in his lap as Kay maneuvers to cut off their quarry.

It’s really some impressive driving, and he might have been able to appreciate it if he wasn’t also hanging on for dear life; however necessary it is, however willing Cassian is to take those risks to get their informant, there’s only so much velocity a human body can take before panic sets it.

And gods, this dust. Cassian can barely see through it, and guesses that only Kay’s wider visual spectrum is letting him discern anything useful at all. They’re both caked in the stuff, grit already between Cassian’s teeth and his eyes gummed nearly-closed, trying not to breathe in too much or think about what the powder must be doing to Kay’s joints.

This mission just keeps getting better.

He twists a brushwire around the fingers of his left hand, though he doesn’t recall taking it out. It’s a streak of dark red against his skin, sharp and soft at the same time, and winding it tight grounds him amid the furor of the drive.

This not the first time he’s had cause to be grateful for Kay’s precision reflexes, but he’s certainly grateful now. He trusts Kay completely, but he still chokes on a shout as the speeder shudders, jerking around a rock Cassian didn’t even see until it was too late.

His hands shake, and it’s not just the vibration of the speeder, though there’s that, too, jarring his nerves with much the same feeling as whatever has startled rattling somewhere inside the machine as they begin to come alongside the thugs’ speeder.

“Kay.” The wind snatches his voice away. “Kay!”

“You will have a six point five second window of opportunity to shoot the driver,” Kay says.

“That’s not long enough!” Cassian fumbles his blaster, finds the safety with his thumb, and flicks it off.

“In five,” Kay intones, as calmly as if they’re on a beach somewhere. “Four.” The driver glances towards them – he has goggles, which Cassian resolves to borrow permanently for the return trip – “three.” Cassian lifts his blaster. There is a zero percent chance he will have a clear or steady shot in this shuddering speeder, with his hands trembling uncontrollably with adrenaline, and his visibility set at precisely barely any. “Two.”

The driver’s hand whips up, firing off a shot that sears the air close enough for him smell the ozone.

“Now!” Kay shouts, so loud his voice fries with static.

Cassian squeezes off two shots in rapid succession, aiming high so if he misses he won’t hit the engine and engulf them all in an inferno.

The driver slumps over the controls and the nose of the speeder plows into the dirt, pouring a great gout of dust into the sky as Kay brings them back around at a velocity Cassian’s body accepts as no longer horrifying.

“That was a surprisingly good shot,” Kay informs him, sliding serenely to a halt.

Cassian is already aiming at the first of two thugs in the back, making sure none of the gang members walk away from the wreck. “You don’t have to say so,” he grumbles, but it’s Kay. Of course he has to, and telling himself he doesn’t like Kay’s attitude is too big a lie even for Cassian.

He pulls the trigger, aims again, fires a fourth plasma bolt. The obscuring dust makes it easier not to feel their deaths, a momentary relief that he’ll feel guilty over later.

On legs that are only a little wobbly from adrenaline, Cassian vaults the side of the speeder and climbs up to the back of the transport, helping the informant get free of her bonds.

“Kriff,” she says as soon as the gag is gone. “Kriffing _hell._ ”

“Are you injured?” Cassian asks.

“Bruised,” she says.

“Good, let’s go.” The dust is beginning to settle. On everything. He can only hope it will smother any chance of fire from the crashed speeder.

The informant’s eyes flick wildly between Cassian, Kay waiting for them, and the dead thugs sprawled around them. Cassian’s still trying to pretend those don’t exist, just like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t hear one of them scream. Just like he will pretend any tears he sheds later are from dust and dust alone.

“You’ve got to be kriffing joking,” she snarls. “I almost DIED.”

“We saved you.” Cassian’s voice rises, wound tight with strain.

“If not for you, I wouldn’t have needed saving!” she shouts back.

Kay sighs from the speeder. “Would you rather walk back to wherever you came from?” He punctuates the question with a long arm gesturing at the wide open plain, miles and miles from any habitation. “You’re already here. There’s no additional harm incurred by passing on the information we asked for, and we’ll drop you off wherever you like.”

For a second, she looks at Kay like she’s going to be one of those people who asks, disbelieving, _he talks?_

Instead, she just says, “Fine. But that’s it. Then I’m out. Got it?”

He doesn’t get it, never does when they give up, so he just walks back to Kay and lets her follow.

The brushwire is still looped around his left forefinger.

* * *

On the favorable side of the mission, there’s the fact that Cassian and K-2 are both still alive and intact, and that no information or cover stories have been compromised.

On the negative side is everything else: the journey back to Thalmea City, thanks to plenty of traffic and no proper roads, is only nine percent less dusty than the chase. The informant grudgingly gives over the information they’ve come for, and then she spends the remainder of the drive sitting in silence, arms crossed, seemingly determined to ignore the existence of the Rebels. Meanwhile, once the adrenaline spike of the chase wears off, Cassian’s posture sags too much to be entirely due to fatigue and disappointment, which leads K-2 to predict that he’s feeling remorse again.

When they stop for traffic just outside town, the informant jumps out of the speeder and starts walking away.

“There’s a forty-one percent chance of being compromised on the railspeeder,” K-2 says, morosely watching the traffic ahead, “compared to a twenty-nine percent chance of that if we drive back to the safehouse to wait for extraction. Of course, given traffic patterns I predict I’ll pick up between fifteen and thirty-four percent more dust in my joints on a drive rather than a train ride.”

Cassian attempts to wipe the grit from his face with the heel of his hand, but tears have turned the dust to mud, and he only succeeds in smearing it across his cheekbone. The dust in his hair gives him the illusion of organic age, bleaching it gray. He watches their would-be informant vanish through the crowd and down an alley, and sighs. “We can’t take the risk. Sorry, speeder it is. Switch with me; if I drive, you won’t have to move so much.”

That will help, along with the tarp Cassian finds in an alley to throw over K-2.

“I detect the odors of four different kinds of bodily fluids,” K-2 says as he secures it over his chassis, maybe just to say something, maybe just to give Cassian something besides his body count to think about.

He’s rewarded when the corner of Cassian’s mouth twitches. “Then turn off your chemical sensor, Kay.”

He does. “Would you like to know which species and types of fluids?”

“Not… particularly. Unless it is somehow relevant to our objective.”

It’s not, but K-2 tells him, anyway.

He spends the rest of the drive keeping as absolutely still as possible, and while Cassian is clearly trying to keep the ride smooth, every acceleration and jolting stop sifts the ash-fine dust deeper into joints and plating seams. In an attempt to distract himself, he devotes a small amount of processing power to wondering if this is more or less unpleasant than it would be to have it in his eyes and teeth, but he doesn’t know what having teeth is like, so the simulation peters out into uninteresting hypotheticals.

“It took sixty-seven minutes to get here,” K-2 grumbles when they finally, _finally_ reach the safehouse.

Cassian just shrugs, hops out and comes around to the passenger side to lift the tarp in a shower of sand. “We avoided unwanted attention. That’s more important than making good time.” His voice is clipped, rapid, his gaze flickering from alley to roof and back, never settling.

“I am capable of both audio and visual surveillance far superior to yours, Cassian. Let’s just get inside.” Not that Cassian isn’t already perfectly aware of that. Not that K-2 pointing it out has ever made any difference before.

The safehouse itself is, while not the worst they’ve stayed in, far from the best. It’s cramped, for one thing. A single room barely suited to one small human, much less a human of median size and a large droid. It also smells like the urine of several species of rodent, concentrated enough that Cassian, normally impervious even to the unpleasantness his limited olfactory receptors can detect, wrinkles his nose in distaste. K-2 logs their specific chemical makeup and begins a search on the local holonet for any news of disease outbreaks related to such animals.

There’s an undressed cot in the room, a footlocker, and nothing else. Cassian kneels in front of the locker and tugs a scramble key from his boot. Moments later, the lid springs open, revealing first aid equipment for various common species, a blanket, and no tools or mechanic’s supplies at all. Cassian curses under his breath, then reaches into the inside pockets of his jacket and pulls out a small spray can of machine oil.

And the brushwire dog.

“I hoped they’d have more here.” He sounds unusually apologetic. “We’ll just have to use it sparingly.”

K-2 considers their options. Cassian is also a dusty mess from head to toe, though his body is much better at protecting itself from the substance. The musty blanket is the cleanest textile in the room, and it’s only going to get dirty anyway when Cassian wraps up in it.

“We can wipe off the exterior dust with the blanket,” K-2 says, “and save the oil for my hands. The rest of it will require an oil bath to remove anyway.”

With a resigned expression, Cassian nods. There’s sanitizer in the locker, which he pours over his hands, scrubbing off as much of the dirt as he can, even digging it out from under his nails with the sharp point of a well-chewed thumbnail. Unfortunately, the disinfectants in the sanitizer are corrosive – however mildly – especially to the more exposed metal of K-2’s joints and servos, effectively replacing one problem with another if they used it.

Only when his hands are as clean as their circumstances allow, he gathers up the blanket, bunches it into one hand, and brushes K-2 down. It’s relatively quick work, until Cassian starts coughing.

“You should stop.” K-2 tugs the blanket from Cassian’s hands while he recovers his breath, finger joints grinding and sending a series of small alarm signals cascading through his circuits, warning him of potential for damage.

“Yeah,” Cassian agrees hoarsely. “Hands now?”

K-2 agrees and nudges Cassian to sit on the cot, though that proves awkward enough that they both wind up sitting on the floor instead with the cot propped vertically against the wall. Legs folded, facing each other, K-2 is much closer to Cassian’s eye level than usual.

Cassian takes up the brushwires and oil can. “Rest your hand on my knee, it’ll be easier for me.”

K-2 does so. As usual when he takes the time to pay attention to Cassian’s body, he experiences a combination of worry and admiration. Cassian’s wiry muscle lets him walk, run, and climb as quickly as he needs to, and yet can tear if pushed too far. Even just resting his hand on Cassian’s leg lets K-2 feel the exact pressure needed to break his bones, and yet he also feels a strange kind of misplaced pride in the way Cassian’s body repairs itself. Humans are very resilient for beings so breakable, and Cassian excels at both.

K-2 is pulled from these observations when Cassian takes the spraycan and forces oil into K-2’s hollow wrist hinge and radial assembly. After pulling two brushwires from the dog sculpture, Cassian contemplates them for a moment, then straightens them before coiling each one snugly around the ends of his thumb and forefinger. Then, with his other hand on K-2’s forearm for support, he begins to scrub the dust out of K-2’s joints.

K-2 only feels the abrasions as a resistance to his movement, not as pain, but it’s a distressing feeling all the same, and he’s been doing an admirable job of focusing on other things. So admirable, in fact, that he’s a bit surprised by the cascade of processes now unleashed, the resurgence of memory files immediately archived in the moment. Memories of the chase, of feeling dust envelop his chassis, of doing everything he could to give Cassian a chance at success, of his friend doing yet another thing he hated. Too, there’s a flurry of predictions, some helpful and some distinctly less so, about the longevity of his components and likelihood of failure. Simulations of scenarios in which his grit-damaged, faulty hardware causes a problem that results in Cassian’s injury or death.

K-2 tries, as best he can, to cut off the processes that only distress him. There are too many variables for the simulations to have any kind of accuracy, beyond perhaps a very vague range of component lifespan. Besides, though he appears to have followed Cassian’s example of saving up his distress for after the danger has passed, he is also having pleasant experiences and he tries to focus on those.

His distress, for example, seems to be cleaned away bit by bit along with the dust and grit. Each pass of Cassian’s hands makes quieting the upsetting analyses easier. Each time Cassian uses a third, narrowly coiled brushwire to sweep the insides of K-2’s finger joints, Kay is reminded of the other times Cassian has performed maintenance and repairs on his chassis. K-2 has a directory for memories he enjoys recalling, and a disproportionate number of those files involve Cassian keeping K-2 in satisfactory condition.

By the time Cassian has cleaned K-2’s left hand as well as anyone could without a hot oil immersion, K-2’s rogue processes have stopped. Furthermore, Cassian seems calmer than he has the entire mission.

Flexing his hand experimentally, K-2 makes a pleased noise. “Your art supplies have proved quite effective at joint maintenance.”

Cassian sits back on his heels, rolling his neck with a series of small pops that concerned K-2 the first time he’d heard them. His eyes are at normal dilation to compensate for the dimness of the room, and his hands have steadied, the signs of both adrenaline and his heavy burden of regrets faded to his customary tiredness.

For once, he doesn’t even seem particularly wary, just slightly startled, as if K-2’s comment distracted him from the intense focus that consumed him while he worked.

“What? No, I got these for you, actually.” He brushes his dust-grey hair off his forehead with the back of his wrist, glancing at the barely recognizable tangle that’s no longer very canine at all. “That was just to keep my hands busy.”

K-2 refocuses his optics, adjusting for the lack of light in order to better make out the variables of Cassian’s expression. The heat signature in his neck and face has risen, an unusual sign of embarrassment. K-2 isn’t sure what he’s embarrassed about.

“Due to certain environmental factors, I had a feeling they might come in handy.” He lifts K-2’s right hand and the corner of his lips twitch. “So to speak.”

“That was not very funny,” K-2 points out, spreading his hand carefully as Cassian begins repeating the process of oiling his wrist and finger joints. He has unusually good fine motor control for a human, though it’s nowhere near as good as some droids’. At least, it’s good when he’s not under the influence of various chemicals, either ingested or spontaneously produced by his own endocrine system.

“Hm.” Cassian makes a low sound in his throat. “Thanks.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“I know.” He threads a brushwire through the hollow ring of one of K-2’s knuckles and draws it through, clearing away the muck of grease and dirt. “Tell me this is helping.”

“It is decreasing the likelihood of further damage.” Which is true, and something K-2 is grateful for, but it feels incomplete. Cassian’s work is benefitting K-2’s software as much, if not more, than his hardware. “Furthermore, when you perform maintenance tasks on my chassis, I find it easier to stop and initiate processes as I see fit.”

Cassian makes a small sound in the back of his throat K-2 has come to associate with affirmative consideration when he’s distracted. Only when he’s done carefully guiding the brush through the smallest of the ring joints does he look up. Maybe he really had needed to concentrate on his work hard enough not to talk, or maybe he used the activity as an excuse to delay.

It’s Cassian, so who ever really knows?

“So do I.” He nods, expression distant, thoughtful. “It helps me focus.”

In someone else, K-2 might have to consider what that could mean, or accept its bland face value. Early in their companionship, K-2 had taken some time to realize just how much translation his friend’s speech requires; once he had, however, it hadn’t been difficult to parse Cassian’s meaning.

For the moment, Cassian means that maintaining K-2 is calming to him, perhaps even soothing. It is good to hear that it is a mutually beneficial activity. Good enough that it starts up new processes: calculations of the most effective way to increase their time spent in maintenance, and a simulation of maintenance session that involves most of K-2 in an oil bath while Cassian tended to his hands.

For some reason, that sends a surge of power through his systems, and he has to react quickly to keep from activating his fans and blowing the dust around even more.

His hand, he notices, is still on Cassian’s knee, one of Cassian’s hands resting on his. On impulse, Kay turns his over and curls his fingers gently around Cassian's. He’s touched Cassian’s hands before, of course, but somehow the temperature and texture of his skin feels new in K-2’s sensors.

For a moment, Cassian freezes like he does when he’s controlling an emotional response. His eyes flick up towards K-2’s optics and then back to their hands, entwined on his knee. Through all the dorsal venous network of his hand, Kay feels his heart rate increase.

But just when he’s decided Cassian is going to pull away, instead, the fragile human hand closes around his, increasing the pressure and warmth on the finely calibrated sensors. A warmth that fires off a cascade of pleasant responses through every one of K-2’s circuits. Given that he has touched the bodies of other organics in the past, and Cassian’s plenty of times, there is no reason this experience should be different, and yet…

Cassian’s lips part like he’s about to speak, his gaze fixed on their hands, and the salt damp of sweat now pricks K-2’s chemical sensors. Combined with the elevated pulse, it’s a reaction that resembles distress, yet Cassian does not appear distressed. He is not injured, and there is no current additional stressor.

“Cassian,” K-2 starts, and then stops, because Cassian is _smiling._

Well, what passes for his smile. A smoothing of the premature creases on his brow, a deepening of the ones around his eyes. And then the smile actually curves the habitually tense set of his mouth, and that sends another power surge through K-2 that he doesn’t understand, scrambling his ability to calculate why, exactly, this is making Cassian both stressed and happy. Why can’t organics make sense for once? And why does seeing Cassian smile while holding his hand feel so good?

He wants to ask Cassian, but Cassian and emotion of any kind are always an unstable mix, and K-2 would rather keep holding his hand than get answers. Especially since he suspects that Cassian will not be very helpful when it comes to this information.

Still, perhaps positive reinforcement might increase future chances of more such contact? He should avoid direct and emotional language, he knows that much.

“This is good,” K-2 ventures.

“It is?” The pressure of Cassian’s hand increases minutely, then decreases again, but he doesn’t let go. “It is.” The difference in tone between the repetitions is just as minute. The way his accent thickens on the second iteration is more telling of emotion than even the variation of tone.

K-2 nods encouragingly, even as he reels from the sheer strength of his own positive response to Cassian finding the contact pleasing. Still, he has time to catalogue the exact pressure pattern when Cassian squeezes his hand again.

K-2 is wondering how he can possibly re-create these conditions so that they can repeat the experience, has already saved eight possible scenarios to a new directory, when there’s a hitch in Cassian’s breathing. He turns to the side to sneeze, then cough, both hands on his knees now.

K-2 is sorry that they are no longer touching, but he has always been practical and passes the canteen to Cassian. “This planet is an affront to intelligent life.”

Cassian takes the canteen, coughs again, and manages to take a gulp between spasms. “Or just an affront to life in general. It’s worse than sand.” He wipes his eyes, leaving a gray smear of thin clay across his cheekbones. After another drink, his breathing steadies, and he leans away to scratch his head in the latest shower of dust.

“It is unfortunate you do not enjoy oil baths,” K-2 says.

“A water bath would do just fine.”

“Warm oil is very pleasant,” K-2 assures him, and flexes the hand Cassian had held, conjuring the sensor-memory of skin texture and sweat and pressure. The casual simulation feels somehow hollow compared to the reality, so he stops the process as Cassian gets up.

“I should sleep,” Cassian sighed, and gestured that K-2 should stand. When he did, Cassian put the cot back on the floor. That left very little maneuvering room, but there was enough for K-2 to stand between the door and the end of the cot.

“I will keep watch, and wake you when the extraction team comms.”

Cassian grunts acknowledgement and lies down with his head towards the door, wrapped in the blanket except for one arm, left free to use his blaster if necessary. K-2 has already locked his chassis into low-power mode, while he focuses on scanning comm frequencies of all kinds, in addition to making auditory and infrared surveillance of the safehouse and its environs. He listens as Cassian shifts in the cot in an effort to find a restful position, as his breathing begins to slow.

His peripheral sensors come immediately back to full power when Cassian briefly curls one hand around K-2’s lower leg. For the first time, K-2 regrets not having more sensors there.

Even so, he can appreciate the feeling behind the gesture, and it keeps his processes pleasant for the rest of the night.

* * *

After his debriefing, Cassian spends five point three minutes longer in the shower than usual. Even more impressive is that the hot water feels so good he doesn’t actually notice he stays too long until Kay helpfully informs him.

“You spent five point three minutes longer in the shower than usual,” the droid says as he comes out of the refresher, still drying his hair with one of the thin, regulation grade towels.

“I think the dust was ingrained in my skin,” he replies, and Kay recoils in horror. It’s amazing how well-integrated his body language algorithms have become over the years.

He flicks the towel over his shoulder and finger-combs his hair flat. Not for the first time, his gaze pauses in its habitual cursory examination of his companion. He’s supposedly looking at the new luster in Kay’s paint, the shine of his freshly-oiled joints. He’s not supposed to be lingering on his hands.

“Besides,” he says, tearing himself away, “how long did you spend in the oil bath?”

“Precisely as long as required to clear the grit from my components.”

“So did I.” Cassian stalks to his locker and pulls out a fresh shirt, crisp and clean and identical to the one he’d been wearing before. Except that it doesn’t feel scratchy when he pulls it over his head. It doesn’t scrape on his skin, and even though he lathered several times very thoroughly, he doesn’t itch like he usually does from the mass-produced, cheap soap the Alliance can afford to buy in bulk for its soldiers. He’s gotten used to it, and moreover knows there’s no alternative, so he’s never bothered to complain about it. Lifting his hand, he sniffs the inside of his wrist and smells… nothing. No faintly astringent chemical scent. He just smells like himself, but clean.

No one knows the soap bothers him. He barely thinks about it himself after the initial moment of discomfort. No one, except maybe… “Kay? Was, ah, was there a change to the sanitizer requisitions?”

“Yes.” Kay doesn’t look up from any of the three data pads he’s juggling at the small desk in Cassian’s quarters. Somehow he hasn't knocked off the brushwire dog he reconstructed (with superior technique, he’d been sure to point out) from the back corner of the desk. He pauses. “Is it a positive difference?”

The new soap doesn’t smell and it doesn’t make him itch. “Yes.” The slow, warm understanding dawns through him. “Thank you.” What’s more, it had been there when they’d returned from GUHL-JO387O. Kay had to have noticed Cassian’s discomfort and made the requisition before they left.

Kay looks at him then, posture relaxed and conveying that he’s very pleased. With himself or the situation, Cassian can’t be sure. “You’re welcome.”

Cassian smiles, just a little.


End file.
